For My Daughters-Lesson 5: Struggle Love Is Not Love

 

Babygirls-

I want to you to know one crucial thing:

You cannot make someone love you. 

Here’s another one for free:

You should not have to make someone love you. 

 

If I can have you understand just how precious you are, and how amazing you will become–I think I will have done half of my job as your mother. Knowing these two irrefutable things about yourself as women–as Black women–this will allow you to be dynamic. Also, rendering you immune to the thirst to be chose!

There is this concept a friend of mine came up with. Honestly, she may not have invented the term, but for the case, I’ll say she did. She called it: struggle love.

What is this, you  ask?

This is the type of love that is toxic, dear ones. It is this promoting of the idea if you ‘just hang in there’ it’ll be better–when there is no reasonable hope of such! Now, don’t get me wrong:  every relationship has bad patches! Every relationship has moments (moments!) where you don’t like or can’t stand each other. In those temporal moments, you may have the choice to ride out the bad, knowing, seeing where the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s not dark all the time! But dark times should not be ongoing! Those moments should be few and far between.

There were men that I chased, hoping they would see how beautiful and capable I was. There were relationships that I stayed in far too long, hoping it would get better. But better never came. See, what people don’t tell you is that ‘struggle love’ takes from you. It saps your youth, strength and focus. It takes or sabotages opportunities! This is what I heard from a man that  tried to keep, that it took over three years to leave:

“I don’t want you to go out of town for school, because I would miss you so much.”

And I listened. The thing behind that? He didn’t want me to be far from him, because he was insecure. And sometimes insecurity in the wrong man leads to controlling behaviors. Or to be clingy and manipulative.

Another man I tried to date wanted to change who I was. Hated how smart I was, that I kept myself up, and that I was ambitious. It was odd:  the same thing that drew him to me, was the very thing that made him hate me.

Struggle love props up this idea of the happily ever after at all cost! It promotes this idea that everything that makes you valuable as a woman is wrapped in being with man! While doing whatever it takes to keep him! It involves ignoring or tolerating outrageous, abusive behavior because ‘he’s my man, and you just don’t understand.’ No!

If you have any inkling; any type of ‘something told me’, any funny feeling? Believe it. This is the Almighty protecting you, warning you, from something that can hurt or trap you. The thing is, my loves, a hurt is something you can be be mended or healed from. A trap? That takes a while to get out of, and may leave scars or residue. With that residue, along with the hurt? This may make you susceptible to evil, manipulative people.

My dearest ones, my heartbeat in two places, I want better for this for you! I want you to remember you are a Queen. You are entitled to be both beautiful and ambitious. You are allowed to manifest your own destiny! You have the right to tell a man ‘no’! And that is a complete sentence! You are allowed to possess all pieces that make you formidable and feminine. Change for no one. Change for no man. Saying ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t fix something, or everything! You are entitled to leave any relationship when you believe that you had done all you can. It does not make you less than a woman to be single or walk away from what no longer suits you! Own your power and person, my loves.

You have the right to have healthy, lasting love. You do not, will not, have to give your body to boy, a man (or another woman) not be valid, valued or loved. Love is not a struggle. It is given. That which can be given, and given freely, is never a struggle.

I love you beyond the stars, to the moon and back.

Always,

Mommy

 

 

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Daddy Lessons #2- Dating

 

“If a man likes you just a little bit, you’ll be amazed what he’ll do for you.”

-Richard L. Bush (1948-1998)

 

This is the simplest, boldest piece of advice I have every gotten in regards to dating and dealing with men to date. My father had the habit of telling me this type of advice on a regular basis even when I was still considering boys as gross. However, the truth of this statement? Unparalleled. Armed with this secret confidence, I began to be a constant observer of male behavior.

I began to watch how he and my mother interacted. I began to watch how he treated her, and how she responded in kind. I watched how he did things for her, just because he wanted to. Or because they needed to be done! He got her flowers because he wanted her to have them! Not  because he had done something wrong.

My father loved my mother. Completely. It wasn’t until he died, and I really began dating, that I saw how completely he loved her. That kind of love, I know now, is rare. And worked for. The cooler thing is he liked my mother, as well as loved her. They still went out and did things together. They made time to talk and laugh and be a couple–independent of the three of us.

I took their marriage, their relationship, as a roux–the bare minimum that I would accept as a partner. I expected to be treated well. I expected to be listened to and respected. I expected to be valued. When I ran across a young man that couldn’t or wouldn’t? I ended the relationship.

Now, have I always gotten that formula right? Nope, not at all. I chased me that I thought like me, and it came to naught. I stayed in crazy situations longer than I should, because I gave people time to change. Hell, I stayed with my ex-husband waaaaay longer than I should have because I knew (or thought) if I was a little more patient he would change. This has been my Achilles heel:  I love too hard. I give too much. And I sometimes am way too patient in anticipating a human being change. But perhaps that is the maturity in my father’s statement; I waited to see if like would surface, resurface, or how often it would surface.

On the other hand, I have been on the reciprocating end of affections of young men that I, too, was crazy about. This young men that decided to call me just to tell me ‘Good Morning.’  Who opened doors for me. That got me the flowers. Gave me money to ‘just have’. Even two of them decided they could not live without me and decided to make me a wife.

This quote gave me the awareness of what being treated well is. This portion of wisdom allowed me call crazy what it is. It allowed me to know when relationships should begin or end. It allowed me become cognizant of my time. To value my body. My skills. My talents. It allowed me to recognize what I bring to any situation. It allowed and allows me to know if those attributes are not appreciated, I don’t have to ask for permission to leave. I can just go.

The best thing my Daddy ever gave me was a sense of self. From that sense, he gave his oldest daughter to knowledge that I was special. If any man didn’t see me as that, or able to love me past the pretty, I didn’t need him.

 

Someone Please Go Get Kanye! Now.

The founder of For Harriet, Kimberly Foster, said it best:

“We have been talking about Kanye’s downward spiral for five years. When does a spiral become who a n—- is!”

From that life quote, we have this. Aside from the con artistry that is the church he is running, this is a level of strangeness I couldn’t ignore.

Like, bruh. I cannot with dude.

Stop blaming this nonsense on his mama being dead or his non-therapeutic levels of lithium or his sleep deprivation. Young fresh to deff ‘Ye, has now transformed into an ASN. Wanna know what that acronym means? Here you go.

Kanye is now an Ain’t Sh!t N—a.

This is no longer up for debate. Don’t at me! Don’t email me! I said what I said.

I am far from a prude on my worst day. That being said, like what you like. Flat out. Bedroom behavior ain’t no one else’s business anyway! However, when people make dumbass statements like this?! As a Black woman, I am tired of the men that look like my father saying how less than desirable I am.

Like, DUDE?! Who TF asked you do weigh in on sexual prowess?! Kanye, fam, let me tell you something. You married a girl that was ranthu by Brandy’s little brother! That Reggie Bush smashed! Like?! Don’t come at Black women as it relates to this.

‘Ye! Yo, you the one said that that you had to take all these showers and prepare to be with Kim Kardashian! Like, where did this come from, sir!

I don’t remember since Kanye has been famous him being seen with anyone that wasn’t light-skinned (like Amber Rose) or just White! Sex is a sensual act anyway, but let me tell you a bitter truth that I heard in middle school and through high school. It was relayed and rumored that White dudes would eat you out and White girls would give head. I heard this at 12! So the fact Kanye repeated something he may have heard in public school almost 30 years ago? I’m not surprised at.

I’m not shocked that he said this either! He’s been on this campaign of trying to be the White OJ was before the death of his wife Nicole Brown Simpson! What better way to do that then to praise or possess the closest thing to affluent social capital (aka: A White girl)? What other way to tell the people around you where you have casted your lot than to denigrate those you seen as less than? The quickest punching bag for men like Kanye West is Black women.

This off hand comment reduces us as Black women to parts and their function; the rating of her sexual self (is she a freak or not); the reasons why she is not desirable and should only be used for satisfaction.

I’m done being shocked at what this dude does or says. This is who he is! From his musical gifting and talents, he’s trash. But this is a level of trash that solidifies just why I don’t fool with him anymore!

The killer part? I wonder if the Black girls he was with before would give him a glowing review on his cunnilingus or coitus skills. Or does he just come up short.

Being Part Of The Knot-Part 3: Being Chose

I am a fan of jewelry. I always have been. I think that the first time I saw a crown, I have wanted one for myself. I especially fave been fond of rings. On and in my pursuit of trying to have a husband before …

“Blackness Is Ongoing.”-The Power Of This Will By Undoing

I am in this space of radical love and self-acceptance. In my devouring of the fire of Feminista Jones; the medicine at the shoulder, knee, yea, hands of Toni Morrison; I came across the sister oracle, Morgan Jerkins.

This book had been on my radar for over a year. It had been in my literature orbit, and hidden among other Amazon needs. However, now, this time, I bought it.

What I got in the about 8-hours of the author herself, was a dual realization of my power as a Black woman. And the invisible chains that held, pulled and sought to destroy me.

I found myself nodding when she talked about the paradox of being a smart, quiet, Black girl. I teared up remembering my middle school self: smart as hell, awkward, with parents that prized grades over social status. The struggle with sexuality as a Black woman versus the idea (even appearance) of being fast. I was mad as fuck with her as she relayed her frustration with college acceptance; the loss of her father and hiding in the depths of academic success. I clasped my hands, as if she could feel them, when she talked about her faith. I even teared up at her *manifesto in Chapter 9.

The power of this book is it’s willingness to confront the joys and struggles of being a Black woman. She rips off the Band-Aids with laser precision and pulls no punches.

While reading it, I found Morgan on Twitter. I tweeted her about how the book effected me. How I wished I had something like this 25 years ago when I was a girl and trying navigate woman spaces I was thrust into. I had to examine myself and alla my stuff as the choreopoem goes.

In, with, that examination, came a strange empowerment. The further acceptance of my Blackness. Of forgiving women in my family whom did only what they knew to do in order to keep me safe and tame. I no longer felt that my experiences were alien.

This book was a reminder of self, my entire self. Of allowing my daughters a freedom I never tasted. I was reminded my soft heart and quiet nature were never a detriment, but a tool. I was reminded just as Phylicia Rashad said:

“Your whole self is such a treasure.”

I had forgotten that. Like any good writer, Morgan made me remember. For that, I am thankful.

Thank you, Morgan Jerkins.

*The manifesto in Chapter 9 is one of the boldest, most vulnerable things I have read pertaining to loving yourself as a Black woman. I am glad I have this book on Audible so I can go back and reference it on blue days. The days where my magic, my swag or my sway feel less than. Where I feel less than. Where I am low, in need a level of refilling God-deep. One of the joys of being a writer is you get to see and feel deeply. With that depth, the refilling, too, must be just as deep.

Dear Wendy

I haven’t watched the show in years. It gets old hearing about the garbage activities of famous people. It gets tiring of hearing you, as Black woman,  gleeful revel in the downfall of other people. While I do not revel in what is happening to you, one can only say the karma along what is happening to you is akin to Lady MacBeth. It is poetic.

Woman to woman, lemme tell you how raggedy this is. You have touted your marriage for your entire career. Admirable, yes. Not everyone needs to know everything–I completely agree. You are a mogul in the public eye. So I get how no one needs to know everything, sis. I get it. You have every right to protect your family–but this here?

I have no sympathy for your, Mrs. Hunter.

None.

You have sat on your perch and watched the other people’s relationships fall apart and given your unsolicited advice. Now that all your funky laundry is being seen and smelt? You want to deny it and shroud it in shenanigans.

Sis, come on now. WE SEE YOU!

We saw you fall out. We saw the broken shoulder. We saw you disappear from your show for weeks.We know that Kevin slick treats you bad. Like, c’mon sis! C’mon! Be honest with us! Let us know what is going on!

Yes, we that believe are going to pray for you, it’s the right thing to do. But the fact that this dude had this broad (this whole woman!) on the side for at least a decade eating and living out YOUR BAG?! And he had a baby with her?

SISSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

Like, the book from this ALONE is a NYT best seller! You don’t owe people anything, shug. But you need to understand some atonement is going to be necessary. Some cleansing is going to have to happen. Like you showing off your ring saying, “Don’t ask me about my marriage until you see ring off my finger! And it ain’t goin no where! Not in this lifetime!”

Wendy. Nall.

Every woman that has tried to hang on to a relationship which was burning down around her has done what you are doing! We save face. We lie. We hide to regroup. We pretend the world isn’t noticing how bad we are. We fortify the lie with our own belief. Yet, people see it.

Wendy, the world sees this. We see how he did you, Sis. It’s not right. It’s not okay, and you have a right to privacy. However, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander! You made tea bags and big cups what you do. But don’t be surprised with that tea being sipped is brewed and steeped in the things that are happening to you.

I wish you well, Ma.

Let him miss you. Cut the check. And let him roll over and realize the bag he secured has a hole in it.

With Love,

JBHarris

He Put His Hands On Me

I don’t know if there could be a region deeper than the soul. But, if there were, since there is, he found it.

I laid there in this bed he and I had both filled, and been filled by, and every thought ran back to him. I laid there, wrapped in blankets, rich with his scent. The tears came because I was too weak to stop them this time.

My breasts heaved, still with a sheen over them–a mixture of our sweat, and the saliva from his hunger and kisses. I felt that mixture wick into the sheet, as I ran my free left hand through my hair. The thickness of the tresses made my body clench. I remembered how he pulled my hair. How he commanded me, handled me as he made my body an extension of his own.

Kisses on the nape of my neck, the slaps on my ass. I needed that power. I needed that breaking, and was afraid to admit that. I was his. I rolled in the sheets. This tangled, blessed mess was evidence that what we had was real. It was a fulfillment of every promised whispered.

He broke me open. He he did. He told me that he would. With his body snug and sure inside all of me which was waiting and woman, he found the fortress of my thick, dark hair and growled into my left ear as he took all of me. “All of you is mine. There has never been a time when you were not mine.” He pulled my hair with a force that only someone whom could own all of you could. Not vicious, not hard, but knowing.

My breath was caught until I saw stars, felt the world slow and shift with the melody  of his melding of body to mine. I opened my mouth, remembering to breathe, feeling as if–knowing as if–I was breathing for both of us. I couldn’t be apart from him. Not again, not ever.

It was deeper than this, we both knew it would be more than this. There was a chord within me strum, plucked and unknown, that could only had been found by someone on who knew where it was. I found my eyes, open in the dark, only seeing his.

And I felt it.

This, this, fire that coursed through me. With that latching, I felt my body bloom. My hands moved from the comfort of the slick flesh of his shoulders to the chill of the headboard. I breathed again, eyes glassy and pulse in my ears. His hands found mine, interlacing our fingers.

He kissed me, lingering on my bottom lip. I moved my head towards him, needing to taste him, committing him to memory. His taste. His form. His scent. My eyes closed again, and I fell into an ocean. My body became light, and pull into him–and he into me.

I tossed and turned, haunted by his body and memory. My thighs tingled remembering his hands as he pulled them apart to feast on their meeting. My inner walls still watered as if he were inside me. I gripped the sheets on my bed, and came again. Thought of him, and I, and me and this, and could only howl.

My eyes closed again, needing to pull him back to me. Remember the need in him that called to me, held for me, and I needed that back. On my back, I closed my eyes. I bit my bottom lip, remembering the growl that came from him. More wolf than man. And I loved that.

I found him.

My Alpha marked me.

And I could not wait until I could feel his teeth in my flesh again.

[image from abc.net.au]